Hearts in reflection
by soshi185
Summary: [Snow Queen!AU] Being raised among books, Momo remembers the story of the Snow Queen by heart. But sometimes fairy tales differ from their interpretations. When Momo goes to celebrate the Winter Solstice, instead of the queen in the white sleighs she meets a boy with ice powers that turns the town into ashes. Does he really have a shard of mirror in his heart?
1. The first page

**The first page**

* * *

 _"suddenly the mirror shook so terribly with grinning, that it flew out of their hands and fell to the earth, where it was dashed in a hundred million and more pieces"_

* * *

This fairytale started with ice.

It was everywhere; under his nails, around his breath, in her hair, inside her mouth, on the soft like fluff carpet that used to be scorching black but now became white. The frost left wavy fingerprints on the windows facing the garden. It had been covered by flowers once; they were all dead by now.

He was kneeling on the carpet, the not-soft carpet bristling with the sharp crumbs of ice and broken mirror, watching his hand. Red… He cut himself when he fell; the scarlet drops were running down his fingers and soaking into the fluff, marked it with stains as beautiful as spring roses.

But it was winter. And it was beautiful. This red, touching the ground, made him understand how white her ice was... His ice was turquoise, like the cave carved in the glacier where they had hid in the past.

And now the room was white - like snow, like her dress, like winter, like her skin, like hellebores she loved so much. A foolish thought – he wanted to lay down flowers on her knees even though he couldn't. Light coming through the window was stopped by the icy glass, and the wind was singing between the empty garden alleys.

The flowers will not bloom.

The mere sight of her face, as absent as if reflected in the mirror, stuck in his heart. Would hellebores make her smile? He knew the answer and still wanted to ask: why did flowers stop whitening? Why was the carpet covered with black, then white? Why…

"Why?"

She didn't say a word. Instead, she looked off in the distance - she always did it, didn't she, always so close to him, always within reach, got through life with her eyes closed on him. Why– he slammed his fist against the icy wall and left a poppy bud of blood.

"Why did you do that?"

She was sitting across from him, leaning against the white ice as if it was a bed, and she refused him last words. Two tears glistening in the cool light crystallized on her cheek.

At the second time, he touched the ice gently. His trembling fingers run along the smooth surface, feeling biting kisses of frost, and his skin adhered this cold, hugged it, missed it. Only coldness... He didn't feel crying warmth on his face - it was stony and serious, made of ice. But his hands trembled, stubborn. He trembled like a child.

Calm down. It's not like you. Think about it. You have been left on your own many times. Now you can handle it, too.

His whisper was quieter than the wind outside, "What should I do? Tell me, one more time."

She always knew what to say. The question was answered by the blueing lips. She was right; this ice was clear, too clean, too much like a glass coffin... And what she loved about winter was the sun taking a look in the frozen lake; the glow of aurora that crossed the polar sky like a sleigh with bells! Only these long and dense winter nights teach you the beauty of dawn on the snow-covered hills, she told him in silence. Do you remember cocoa with marshmallows, fire cracking on the fireplace – he did – me and you, our sledges and reindeers, us immersing in sunlight and snow, like angels...? Do you remember?

If she didn't love light...

"I remember," he said, "I remember everything. And I will do what I need to do."

Flowers waiting for spring to bloom. Her needing fire to smile. Ice demanding a flame to melt away.

Spring's far away.

A new thought broke his heart – the Winter Solstice was coming. The snow would move to the four winds and bury the green, envelop shorter days like a shroud. The little white hellebores would bloom soon on the dead earth. How tragic, but he was lucky. It all happened tonight, and he was lucky on this December night.

Before leaving, he looked at her calm face for the last time, trying to remember every small detail. He saw everything as though a velvet curtain of white; everything was white. She still didn't look at him, no; until the very end, she avoided his eyes, lost in her own world, together with the frost bringing out the beauty of her eyelashes.

This made him want to scream. Do you see what you did? Do you know, you know that you turned your back on me? First he, now she... He could understand him, but you... The Snow Queen took everything from him.

And it was all his fault.

But soon it should change. The red fire would melt the ice of the Snow Queen.

When he crossed the threshold of his house, he felt her stroking his hair, her touch like a breeze. But it was the wind that pushed him out the door.

* * *

I planned to upload the prologue together with the first chapter as the beginning is pretty enigmatic but it turns out that I'm too impatient. This story is very different than what I usually write and so I'm pretty excited about this project. Keep fingers crossed, will you?


	2. The tale of Momo

**The tale of Momo**

* * *

 _"A few snow-flakes were falling, and one, the largest of all, remained lying on the edge of a flake of snow grew larger and larger; and at last it was like a young lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a million little flakes like stars. She was so beautiful and delicate, but she was of ice, of dazzling, sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed fixedly, like two stars; but there was neither quiet nor repose in them. She nodded towards the window, and beckoned with her hand. "_

* * *

The day Momo wore the poppy red lipstick was the first day of winter.

The sky was dripping with wet and puffy gray, like an umbrella unfolded over the town to announce the coming snowstorm. Sitting on the windowsill in the spacious living room, with her head resting on the glass, Momo wondered if the snow would last until morning. If it was cold at night, tomorrow she would find her fluffy muff and check whether the river froze at the edges. The beginning of December was fickle, and meteorological maps have taught her that low temperatures would melt before January, but today everything would ice over.

The river and the bridge, the one with the red railing, always froze on the Winter Solstice.

Her warm breath left hazy freckles on the window. What can you do with them? A quick creativity test: soft bunnies, snowflakes, roses similar to those blooming under her window in spring. Momo sighed and thought about painting a fictitious picture on the glass, but she stopped herself – instead, she let her fingers skim across the mirror lying beside her. The dim light reflected there together with the copy of her red lips, not so different from the roses, shining on the porcelain skin, and ebony hair tied in a ponytail. She looked so dignified this morning – so much like anadult – that she wanted to ask her mother where she kept her old skates, and if the ice would come tonight, and if Jirou would bring her sled…

But Jirou was an adult, right?

Momo really wanted to sledge, but it wasn't something a lady would do; it looked funny, but it could destroy the winter dress that her mother just ordered.

Jirou would like to tie the rope of her sled to the largest carriage, too – Momo knew it and smiled at her reflection. And she wouldn't do it, too. Jirou would look at Momo in disbelief, that sarcastic Jirou, shrug and snort, and add that she wouldn't make a fool of herself. Only children and boys go sledging! –she could say, Momo thought – not fifteen-year-old girls. And later she would watch Kaminari and Kirishima from the side, with a frosty blush covering a shame blush, and laugh out loudly only at their falls in the snow...

"Knock knock! Don't sleep, Yaomomo, or the Snow Queen will come and take you through the mirror!"

Jirou was standing in her door.

"You didn't hear me?"

"Not many people can take pride in such a sensitive hearing, Jirou. Recognizing a person after the sound of their steps is a gift, not a universal skill," Momo said, putting down the mirror and smoothing her dress.

"I... A gift?! Oh please… Sometimes you say absurd things, girl."

Jirou sat on the sofa facing the window and hugged her knees. Momo laughed but didn't add a word because Jirou sheltered her flush with a strand of hair.

A grown-up—or someone who believed herself to be grown-up.

"When will we start the lesson?" Momo asked, changing the subject.

Jirou let her head fall back, not even concealing relief.

"Mom is downstairs, your mother caught her. I don't know... I guess we have about half an hour? I wonder why adult women talk so much?"

"I assume they are discussing the financial issues; since it's the beginning of the new month, it's only logical to think that they would settle the payment for my piano lessons. Mother will most likely use this opportunity to find out whether I have showed any progress. It is also possible that based on my skills, they are trying to choose songs that would be the biggest challenge... or, assuming the worst possible scenario, they agreed on the fact that there is no music future for me, therefore there is no reason to worry about piano..."

Jirou was looking at her with her eyes wide open.

Momo cleared her throat, sat up straight. "It was strange, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was." Jirou nodded. "Very strange. Nobody can go into this… lecture mode… only you." She laughed. "That's why I come here: once you get used to it, your explanations become interesting."

"Some consider it to be a lack of propriety, so..."

"Forget about them," Jirou said and blew out some hair from her forehead.

She had a habit of doing this: checking her hair, making blunt comments. Momo was perfect – her hair was long and combed, her tongue was impeccable, her lips were red and dresses were snow white or gray. Jirou was irregular – her hair was short and uneven, her tongue was spiked with sharp thoughts, her black pants were everything but feminine. Nobody understood why two girls became friends, and it didn't matter. Momo couldn't explain that the daughter of her music teacher was the only child visiting the cold house filled with sumptuous fireplaces, that they had slid down the banister even when Momo had been afraid and drunk hot tea with cake that Jirou couldn't afford in her own home. Nobody knew it because in their eyes Momo was too bright and Jirou was too dark; nobody noticed how artistic their souls were – though Momo lived on words, Jirou on music. It didn't matter as long as Jirou was playing the piano and Momo was writing lyrics for her.

Momo loved the wise twinkle in her friend's eye, the one telling the world that music taught her all she needed to know. The one she gave her now.

"Are you going to the Winter Solstice, Yaomomo?" Jirou asked, nodding in the direction of the window, where the frost was glazing like stained glass, and then on the mirror, exposed on the windowsill. Momo felt the urge to hide it.

"Today at six, in the main square, where they decorate the Christmas tree and stop sleighs," Jirou announced instead of asking.

"You perfectly know that it's not simple..." Momo began. "I can't get out whenever I feel like it. Especially on a day like the Winter Solstice..."

"You're crazy about this holiday, Yaomomo," Jirou interrupted good-naturedly, "Don't worry so much. It's about time to take part in the festival and see the Snow Queen in person... At least I hope so, even if she hasn't come here past few years."

"Since winter constantly starts at the same time, the Snow Queen must travel nearby and bring snow with her," Momo pointed out. "It looks like she just stopped participating in the official celebrations."

Jirou glanced at the clouds, dark and round, filled with snow. They weren't there yesterday; the Snow Queen brought them from the North. "I'm not surprised. The musicians at the festival play like a cat crashing a piano keyboard. I live nearby, so I know. My ears bleed. Maybe if they don't get drunk, we'll see her today."

Momo had seen the Snow Queen.

But even Jirou couldn't know.

"I'd like to see her myself. It would be cool." Jirou sighed. "We're fifteen, so this year we can go out and have fun legally. You're gonna miss this opportunity?"

"Of course I'm…"

Momo blinked. She felt stupid. Adulthood, a dream she had been chasing for so long that she passed it. Adulthood - like snow, falling tonight to disappear before Momo can enjoy it.

Jirou was right – only children were in danger of vanishing into thin air on the Winter Solstice. She and Jirou were safe. The Snow Queen couldn't curse their reflections; she couldn't wrap the ermine fur around them; she couldn't imprison them in the ice palace. At the age of fifteen, they came of age and their eyes learned to distinguish good from evil, and even the enchanted mirror wouldn't change it. That's what the books said, and Momo tended to trust them more than humans.

"Yaomomo." Jirou smiled gently. "I didn't tell you yet, but... Tonight I'm gonna sing in the main square."

"That's wonderful!" Momo exclaimed.

Jirou silenced her with a wave of her hand.

"I guess. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy. But this is scary. The whole town will watch me - listen to me. And I will think about them... about this crowd... about these numbers..." She faltered. "You know. About everything."

"I understand, yet it's a wonderful chance. You deserve to show off your talent… Who knows, maybe a patron of the arts will pay attention to you? The first impression is especially important. Did you choose the song?"

"Yes, The rose and the wind. And... I want you to come," Jirou admitted on one exhale, and explained, "I'd feel better if I could focus on one person."

Jirou sounded as if she had been looking in the mirror and practicing these words.

"Will you come?"

Excitement. Pride. And dry mouth.

"I'll try," said Momo.

A coffin thought Momo.

"Thank you."

I live in a glass coffin.

"You are welcomed, my dear."

I'll try... I always try. Everyone around me is doing what I'm trying to do. I can try... to ask for permission. To go out. To break the glass. Observing from behind this glass, reaching out, pounding in the lid. Nobody opens. They look at me. And fine, I don't need help. In the end, I can do this on my own. I have books - fairy tale worlds seen through the colorless walls.

Jirou's voice rang in her head, in her ears.

"Maybe I can talk with your mom? Otherwise, it's on you."

"There's no need to help me, really. It's your day. We must prepare!" Momo smiled. Honest, beautiful, wide – the smile of a porcelain doll. "I'll ask her myself. As usual, I agree with you. We are fifteen. I know what I want."

Jirou thought about it. And then she said something surprising. "Yaomomo, tonight you should use your red lipstick. It looks good with snow. Besides, you look good in red."

The bells were ringing.

In a way, everything started with Jirou and the red lips. Later, Momo often wondered what would have happened if her friend hadn't said those words, that magic spell. Maybe nothing? Maybe Momo would have lived in her glass coffin, a beautiful and cold coffin. Maybe she would have died in a fire that came later. Perhaps on a certain December morning she would have been buried under the frozen ground.

She'd have never thought about the redness, her cheeks would have never turned pink. And she'd have never reached for the mirror... but the mirror fell on the floor and broke into a thousand pieces, shining like the rays of sunshine peeking through the ice.

Momo wouldn't have cut her finger.

But she did.

"Ouch!" She jumped to her feet.

"Are you all right, Yaomomo? Show me!" Jirou demanded, her voice full of panic.

Momo didn't hear her. Stay calm, she told herself. Her hands were shaking. No. Not this mirror... No. Calm down. It should be cleaned, disinfected and then bandaged. The cut was small, but droplets of blood were dripping and blossoming on the windowsill where she was sitting a moment ago. They left red stains.

Momo raised her head, looked at the window...

And there was a boy.

Crouching on the frozen ground in a gray, traveling coat and with a white scarf wrapped around his neck, he looked like one of the sculptures her mother brought to decorate the garden. Momo tried to knock on the window but he didn't react - she only left petals of blood on the glass.

The bells were still playing in high tones.

"What are you doing, Yaomomo? Give me your hand." Jirou approached her.

"Someone is downstairs, in the garden," Momo explained.

"In your private garden?! What the..." Jirou glanced over her shoulder. "You're right. Do you know him?"

Momo tried to take a closer look at his face. Unsuccessfully.

"I have no idea who he is."

Jirou winced.

"So? Are we going to call someone?"

Momo shook her head. "Tonight takes place the Winter Solstice festival, right? Many people arrive from the periphery. Maybe he got lost and needs our help?"

"He's in your garden, not at the front door. Remember?"

"Don't you think that if he was a thief, he would hide in a less visible place? That person definitely does not care if he is noticed. I think it is a good idea to check the situation before we decide to bother others."

Jirou crossed her arms over her chest, but said "Well, if you think so."

Momo grabbed the handle and pushed. The window was heavy, it froze to the frame. But winter was yet to come! Momo pushed up harder against the stubborn window, the icy wall, the pellucid lid of the glass coffin that imprisoned her in this beautiful house. She shouldn't think that way... The end of her nail broke, it fell like a flake. Finally, the window gave up and Momo felt coldness.

"Watch out or you'll fall!" Jirou cried, putting her arm around her friend's shoulders.

The sounds of scuffle caught the boy's attention. As Momo leaned out of the window and looked at him, the breeze that smelled like white flogging her face and tugging her hair, the boy looked back. He was probably at her age, or maybe a little older, judging by his pale face – the gray face of the garden figures – marked by seriousness. As if he has seen too much. His eyes were stone-cold; one was gray and faded like snow covering those endless winter deserts Momo had seen in geographic books, the other was turquoise, bright as corridors of ice caves. His hair was in two different colors too – pure white and intense red, very inconsiderate in the winter landscape, giving him a flame of life. He looked like someone who came from far away. Far, far away.

Jirou pushed Momo gently to look at him.

"Hey! Who are you?! Are you lost?"

The boy was still looking at Momo.

She shuddered; she had the odd sensation that she should protect this scene. Of course it was nonsense. She never made hasty decisions. But the boy in the garden suddenly reminded her of illustrations from children's books: old, dusty, worn-out by time and turning the pages.

"Have we met before?" Momo asked.

Her voice was so quiet that the boy probably didn't hear her.

Jirou gave her a quizzical look, so Momo gazed away and spoke louder, so loud that the boy who ignored Jirou's question seemed to stare at the sound of her voice, "This garden is my family's property, ergo my property. If you got lost, I will be more than willing to show you the way. However, good manners require you to introduce yourself and explain your presence."

"It's better now," Jirou whispered in her ear, "You were a little pale. Are you okay?"

"Yes," she replied.

She didn't feel good. No. The boy stared at her with his eyes frozen like this garden. Like winter. And she felt uncomfortable.

Her broken nail tapped on the windowsill.

"Todoroki."

"What?" Momo asked, taken aback.

"You asked me for my name. It's Todoroki," the boy repeated louder. As if they were having a normal conversation. But she indeed asked him; maybe they had.

And then he got up and turned away. Just like that. Without a word, without a single look. He ignored them. The cold wall seemed to grow behind his back... Why was it so cold? The boy – Todoroki – was sliding on the frosty ground, mingling with the ubiquitous white air and walking away from Momo, from the window, from the garden, from the glass prison. Looking at his back, a knot in Momo's chest untied a bit. It melted. Because now she noticed why he was crouching there.

"Hey you! Stop!" Jirou exclaimed. Her voice was like a bell rising above the sound of the wind. Not like sleigh bells. "Didn't you hear our question? Who are you, by the way?"

Momo put her hand on Jirou's shoulder.

"What if he didn't get lost. Give me a moment, please."

"For what?" Jirou asked, blinking.

And Momo leaned out again.

"Do you like Christmas roses?"

As expected, the boy stopped, although he didn't turn his face to her. Momo leaned her elbows on the windowsill. It was so cold that it almost caused her pain. Her breath turned into small clouds. Surely by now the river was freezing over.

"I saw you watching my flowers. They are commonly known as Christmas roses," Momo recited, "A plant from the glaucoma family, characterized by a very unusual period of flowering, as it's one of the few species blooming in December. I think that it gives them a unique... a creative charm. Or a fairy-tale charm, if you prefer."

Outside, there were no colors. The roses that bloomed in her garden were white. Growing in the even row, they looked like small crystals, as if Momo had planted seeds of ice. The frost shone on their petals like crushed silver.

Only his hair was red. And the blood on her hand.

Like spring roses.

"In my homeland, they are called hellebores," Todoroki said, finally turning to them. The frost shimmered in the white part of his hair, like between those white roses - Momo didn't know if it was possible - but white was clinging to silver, silver to white.

His eyes stopped on the flowers.

"Where are you from?" Momo asked, following his gaze.

He disregarded the question; maybe he decided there was no need to answer.

"Do... do you like roses?" she repeated.

Todoroki was silent for a moment. "Not really," he admitted. "I don't like flowers. It's a waste of time. And they wither too fast. I don't like watching how they die after a while."

Indeed, Momo thought that he was looking at the flowers like at living beings, bending under the breath of the wind, shaking with cold; whose life was short, beautiful and chained to the winter garden.

What would the flowers have told her if they had spoken?

And what did Todoroki find in those ordinary frosted petals that he clenched his hand and hid it in his coat pocket?

"Well, then..." Momo started, her voice sounding much more timid than before. "Despite this, you were looking at my roses, weren't you? I love them. In summer, I also plant camellias… I wanted to say that I plant them earlier…" She took a deep breath. "Christmas roses… They are my favorite. They usually bloom on the first day of winter."

"I know."

"So you know?" Momo raised her eyebrows.

Todoroki only muttered something in response. He didn't give the impression of a talkative person. In fact, he clearly wanted to leave; he was blinking, hopping from one foot to another. And he didn't go. He was standing under her window as if something was holding him there, some invisible and unimaginable bond.

"Do you want to take one of them?" Momo asked with a smile.

He looked puzzled.

"I don't need this," he only said.

This was one of many moments Momo couldn't explain later on—not to herself or to Jirou. But the answer disappointed her. As if she offered him something important, something valuable. And maybe Todoroki wasn't that bad at reading emotions, maybe he noticed, maybe felt that sparkle and sudden death of her smile as he added:

"I don't like flowers, but someone important to me likes them very much. Those specific flowers you've planted here."

"Ah, I see..."

Momo's arms were covered with goose bumps. Cold. So cold. She wanted to go for a shawl.

"Why don't you take one of them for that person?"

"That's impossible," he replied surprisingly indifferent.

She was waiting for explanation - any kind of explanation - but Todoroki was silent. So she started to look for a subject, one of those necessary to rescue a conversation in danger of drying up before it even starts. The one that would let her know why the strange boy in the traveling coat, with eyes from another world, knelt under her window, looked at the flowers, talked to her now. It was strange, it was unrealistic. It wasn't something that happened in the glass coffin.

Strange people knocked on your window only in books.

"I have to go now," he said quickly. "I've spent too much time here. I shouldn't enter your garden without permission. Sorry."

"Are you traveling? If that's true… then the sleigh with bells that I'd heard earlier belongs to you?"

"What bells?" Jirou interjected. "I didn't hear anything."

Momo almost forgot that Jirou was here. The girl watched Todoroki, waited, analyzed. When the sun came out from behind the clouds, for the first time today, and the puddles in the garden reflected the light like yet another mirror, Momo had to squint. Everything became brighter, almost dangerously exposing and real. The frost glimmering on the trees. Jirou standing next to her. The boy who shouldn't be there.

"Goodbye," Todoroki said.

She still had so many questions. She had to ask them now, before the stranger turned into the anonymous memory of a certain day of winter and melted like snow in the spring. She had to ask them now because Momo was curious, and the more you know about the world, the better you can experience your life. And she was especially curious about people from different fairy tales.

"My name is Momo! Momo Yaoyorozu!" she screamed.

He was almost gone, almost somewhere else. Back on his way and his own life. But he looked at her. "Goodbye, Yaoyorozu. And thank you."

"What for?" she asked.

"For flowers. They are nice. You have a green thumb."

He hid his head under the warm hood, became the white air. Todoroki was almost at the fence when he stated:

"You look like nice people."

She barely heard him. Momo didn't answer – it wasn't something she was used to comment on.

"Take care of yourself on the Winter Solstice. And don't go to the festival."

And he left. Momo stood there.

Everything has changed.

Suddenly, it stopped being so cold.

* * *

Thinking back, I feel that Momo inviting her friends to study in her mansion was one of the first moments when I thought that I love her. It was a comedic moment, but it made me rather sad. Her reaction suggested that she had no friends, no company. Nobody, just books. Since her early life was never further explained - and stayed deep in my heart - I decided to grab this thread and weave Momo as lonely, despite her positive nature. I hope it didn't feel out of character.

I hope you liked it :)


	3. The tale of the fountain

**The tale of the fountain**

* * *

 _"The next day it was a sharp frost-and then the spring came; the sun shone, the green leaves appeared, the swallows built their nests, the windows were opened, and the little children again sat in their pretty garden, high up on the leads at the top of the house."_

* * *

Momo didn't go to the river. She didn't step on the bridge with the red railing.

Not yet.

After the piano lesson flowed like a broken melody, Momo snuck out of house and hid under the shadow of the small garden fountain. The illustrated book of fairy tales was lying on her lap. A childish thing... and such a helpful thing. Reading books, even those she knew by heart, was the best way to get her thoughts in order, to move all the possibilities and words between her fingers like water, again and again. Momo felt at home.

The fountain was one of the few not-beautiful things in the mansion. Brittle and covered with the embroidery of cracks, it was splashing water as often as fragments of the stone flowers decorating it. Once Momo's mother had dreamed of a real fountain. Of a royal charm. However, the winding garden paths and the hedges shaped like fluffy scarves had sent the fountain away, under the fence. Mother had been disappointed until she had learned that garden sculptures were movable and toddled as ordered. Then Momo took the fountain for herself.

It was old. Destroyed. And Momo loved it.

She was sitting on the fountain for a long time, gazing at the water which was beginning to get a skin of ice. The surface was so beautiful now; smooth and shiny.

Like ice. Like a mirror.

Momo thought about her coffin again. It was also smooth, slippery and flawless; it looked like the freshly polished floor at home. There was no crevice letting her climb and escape. Momo's entire house was made of the same transparent glass; the sun seemed to shine through the glazed walls of wood.

The house-palace Momo and her parents lived in was old, elegant and orderly. The countless cozy rooms distinguished it from the Snow Queen's castle and Momo's mother loved it. Momo would be vain if she denied – she also adored the smell of furniture trapped in the amber of old times and the huge, canopy bed where she was sleeping. But from the moment Jirou has mentioned the festival – when Momo saw herself knocking in the glass coffin – she couldn't stop thinking about the residence differently. Coldly. She found herself imagining how it would be to look through that boy's eyes, through the eyes of ice. It felt as if she was standing at the door with him by her side. Momo looked at the large bookshelves, the comfortable sofas, the fireplace in the living room. He followed her. Everything was beautiful, beautiful like a picture hanging on the wall, untouchable and untrue in its beauty.

If she had brought the boy to her home – brought Todoroki, Momo corrected herself – took his hand and walked with him down the hall, would he have seen that the wide, wooden staircase led to her room and to the tower where princesses were kept, and the red curtains sometimes turned into bars? Or would he have been charmed by their beauty, like everyone?

Again, she caught herself thinking what others would do in her place. Momo always thought a lot about other people and decisions they would make. Somehow, everything others did seemed more valuable. She shook her head, as if she could get rid of unwanted thoughts like of water from the ear - splash, and it's done! She tried to stay serious and shake the festival out of her head: its crowd, violins, Jirou's singing voice carried by the winds together with the scent of mulled wine, the ice rink and sleighs, the white dress, the white fur, the white crown... So many thoughts, so much light in the dark.

Her piano lesson went terribly today. Momo had blamed it on the bandage and the wound, and Jirou's mother, the woman whose strict governess's face contrasted with the caring nature, had let her finish earlier. But in fact, Momo couldn't focus; her finger hurt, the Winter Solstice came and Momo wanted to play something else, a silent and irregular sound, something more scratchy and unruly: the bells of sleigh.

She failed. She hated those days when she was helpless.

Uncertainty glided through her veins. She reached toward the shallow water and tapped it with the broken fingernail, then heard a soft crack, a pop, and her bandage permeated with the icy moisture. "You break as easily as a mirror, my fountain," she whispered. "I've broke her mirror today."

The memory returned immediately. She froze. Momo remembered everything; the child, winter, the roses. The snowstorm had fallen on her shoulders like a silk scarf. She had had the same book in her hands, and later... The gale - the white, blinding gale: bright lashes of the wind, waves of snow, a fiery warm hand squeezing her small gloved hand.

"Are you cold?" the little boy asked.

"No, I don't even feel cold," the little girl lied.

She stood calmly. She did not have the courage to move. It was like a walk on a frozen lake: admiring the cobwebs of cracks, or the colors of ice shimmering over the water like in a kaleidoscope. And watching if the ice would not break.

The path was wide, but thick snow has somehow built white walls around them. The little girl was walking, holding the little boy's hand.

"Would you like to die?" the little boy asked.

She shook her small head. He nodded his small head.

"I see. Come, we have two flames."

And the kiss had been so cold that it got to Momo's bones and warmed her up at the same time. From that moment on, winter would last forever in her heart.

Now Momo hunched, hid her face in her hands and felt another kiss, the kiss of the icy fingers on her cheeks. Her heart began to beat faster. "What should I do? What would a wise character do in my place? Was I doomed to fail from the beginning?"

Why did you fail? the fountain asked.

My efforts. The festival. The coffin.

It is not the end.

A lie. I've been locked in the coffin, forced to listen to the bells from a distance.

You are too harsh for yourself, the fountain seemed to say, calm down, not everything is lost yet.

But I promised. Back then, in that snowstorm. I promised her something. And today I have broken the mirror of the Snow Queen, and one of the fragments cut my finger.

It's not too late to keep the promise, my child. Don't be afraid. Fear is the killer of life. Little by little... it brings death in small doses, so you don't notice. Until life passes by. Raise your head. Look into the fear's eyes. You are the creator of life, so do not destroy future.

And then the fountain laughed, like a waterfall, and it was a pleasant laugh. It gave Momo courage. She took a breath. Calm down…

To her left, at the end of the path, the freezing earth creaked.

"Hey, Yaomomo... Why are you reading in a place like this?! The fireplace would be better, right?" Jirou asked, kicking a small pebble.

"Sometimes it's nice to feel coldness on your tongue. I like winter. And I don't like fire."

"I noticed."

She never sat near the fire.

Jirou nodded and crossed her legs next to Momo. The stone framing of the fountain was narrow, so she almost lost her balance. Jirou hissed under her breath and Momo laughed softly. Suddenly she remembered the times they had walked and jumped on the edge of the fountain, checking which one would fall to the water. Momo had usually lost and dried dresses. Back then the fountain hadn't been so old, and the stone had been more stable.

They hadn't been so old, too.

"Yaomomo? What are you thinking about?"

"About our childhood," Momo admitted. Her voice trembled slightly. "Life was much easier. Even terrible things, really scary things like the Snow Queen, seemed less dangerous... Sometimes I wish we could go back to the days when I didn't understand a thing."

"What exactly do you mean?" Jirou asked and printed her lips together.

"I don't know," Momo replied, taking her eyes off the water, "Was it strange?"

"Not strange, but... not like you? Are you okay, Yaomomo? You're always so confident, smart... an answer to every question." Jirou leaned forward and peered at Momo. Her eyes were clever, deep purple. Like her hair. Not blue, not gray. Not like ice.

And if Momo had looked through those eyes, would she have seen herself the same way Jirou saw her? Courageous, confident, winning?

They were lies. Fragile lies made of glass.

"You are wrong, Jirou. I…"

"Besides," Jirou pointed her finger at Momo. "There's no reason to think about it. About the past, I mean. You're still a big and very serious child, Yaomomo. You've just never been as stupid as our boys, so nobody noticed it." She winked at her. There was forcefulness to her voice that surprised Momo. It was like singing - a clear and sincere song. Jirou was not afraid to shout out what kept her mind busy, but she didn't like to talk about her feelings, too, so she learned to lock half of her thoughts inside. Only in music she let it all out, and the words flowed from her diaphragm, through her heart.

"Am I childish?" The reproach in Momo's voice was only half-pretended.

"You have a childish soul, it's something completely different!"

Jirou reached out and took the book without question. Though she opened it on a random page, Momo saw the watercolor illustration of the Snow Queen, pale and frightening with the rose-shaped ice crown on her head, hugging the small, flushed boy in her sleigh. Momo shuddered; she knew it was a coincidence, but perhaps Jirou didn't just randomly open the book. Or the fate guided her hand. The lousy, arrogant fate laughing in her face.

"You always had... I don't know." Jirou run her finger across the illustration and smiled. "That wise heart and childish creativity? A child's heart and an adult's mind? I have no idea how to describe it – you are the girl of words, not me – but that's why I think you shouldn't close this book, Yaomomo. You read between the lines…"

And then, to Momo's surprise, Jirou rested her head on Momo's shoulder. Jirou, her Jirou, her distant Jirou.

"I'm acting strange?" Momo asked, smiling. "It's you who is behaving a little different than usually."

"I've learned to be strange with you, girl."

They were sitting in silence, disturbed only by rustle of the pages tickled by the wind.

"Listen, Yaomomo," Jirou whispered, her face in Momo's hair. "I want to apologize for earlier."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was too pushy. Don't deny it, please. I'm not a coward, I know when I must apologize," Jirou was talking faster and faster. "I warn you: even if you're not angry, it doesn't change anything. I got it all wrong. I messed up, ok? I know that you and I are different, that you can't dance in the streets when you feel like it. I know everything depends on your parents. I know it, and yet I tried to convince you to go with me. Like you don't have enough doubts."

Momo shuddered. "I'd never say anything like that."

"Sure. But there is one more thing I know; I know you want to go to the festival," Jirou said with a smile and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. Couldn't she sit without playing with her hair? Momo decided that maybe one day she would buy her friend a gift: earrings, long and thin, so that she could play with them, tinkle while turning her head, like she turned now to look at Momo. "It annoys me. If you want to go, it means you should be there. Yaomomo... I still remember the day when you read this story for the first time. How old were we?"

"Seven," Momo replied. "I was seven. And given common belief in the veracity of this story, it can be called a legend."

Even so, she felt a kind of relief since everyone said it was a fairy tale. Words had powers.

"See? That is so like you. But listen, Yaomomo... that day something has changed."

"Changed?"

Jirou frowned. "Wasn't it shortly after that big snowstorm?"

This time Momo couldn't say a word. Her throat was tight, like a closed flower bud bereft of light. She only nodded. Jirou was staring at her for a moment longer than necessary.

"After that day, I noticed something like spark lighting up your eyes," she said. "As if ice could start a fire – sounds like a song title, right? And what I'm about to tell you may be strange – it will be strange…" she paused, looked the other way, "but it seems that something connects you with the Snow Queen..."

"Jirou…"

"What, don't make that face! It's true! This fairy tale and you...! Yaomomo, if you go to the festival, the Snow Queen will show up. This has to happen. So I promised myself that when we're fifteen, I'll take you to the city. Even if I have to steal you."

"You made a promise?" Momo bit her lip.

"With myself, yeah."

She looked over Jirou's head at her home, at the Christmas roses growing under the windows and blooming on the first day of winter. At the dollhouse. At the icehouse. If she squinted, she might be able to render the houses invisible and see the main square beyond. It was a question of creativity. A question of sheer determination. And maybe, if she tried really hard, she could soften the walls and go to the festival. What was holding her back? Her fear? The glass coffin had closed around Momo, but Jirou was right, as always. This morning something has changed. The fire was melting the ice from the inside.

Jirou hid her head between her shoulders. "That was before. And now... I wonder if the festival is a good idea?"

Momo blinked. "Why the change of mind?"

"Because of that boy from the garden."

"Todoroki?"

Jirou looked at her, surprise in her eyes. It was clear she didn't expect Momo to call him by his name. The surprise was reflected in her gaze, then retreated behind the purple, as if embarrassed by this fierce reaction, as if asking: forget about me

"He introduced himself, right?" Momo hurried with an answer to the unasked question.

"Sure, I remember. But you said his name as if you were talking about a friend."

"I wanted... It's not like that."

She didn't feel like going through with it. Definitely. All her thoughts were still tangled – she couldn't understand them herself, let alone explain to Jirou. But now… She wanted to keep that name in her memory. The boy from the garden and his long coat with hood made her think of a lonely spirit, wandering through the gray fields. The grim reaper. Momo could almost see him knocking on the door and taking souls. She was afraid of him. But the name 'Todoroki' seemed close, reminded her of the face she had seen.

Jirou took a deep breath. "Don't you think he was suspicious?"

Momo nodded. "Of course. Very suspicious. Peculiar, but he didn't seem dangerous. He left the garden when we asked him, right? He didn't steal anything and didn't behave aggressively…"

"A surprisingly naive attitude. Did you really believe he admired the flowers?"

"What do you think about it?" Momo asked, her voice quieter than necessary.

Jirou shrugged, and it was obvious that she had a detailed theory. "Let's face it: you're rich, Yaomomo. Rich as hell. And suddenly a guy is hanging around your garden and talking to you?"

"From a logical point of view, he couldn't know that I would be in the living room. The fact that we talked is a pure coincidence."

"Yes, it seems so..." Jirou tilted her head back. "Maybe you're right. But what if you're wrong? If he knew you were at home and tried to do some research? Maybe he's a hijacker?"

"In that case, he is really bad at this job. He was noticed and showed me his face..."

"Or maybe he wanted to gain your trust?" Jirou added. "Come on, think this way: he hopes you will let him in on your own. How easy it would be to abduct you from the festival!"

"I don't think it's his purpose," Momo replied, her hand on her lips. All suspicions began to spin, moved by Jirou's arguments. "If you're right, why did he advise me not to go?"

Jirou rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't know. He could make sure you will stay at home so he can kidnap you from here. Or he decided that we are 'good people' and told you to stay away from the festival because he felt sorry for you. Because someone is waiting there for you."

"So wouldn't we be safer at the squarer? If he thinks that I won't come?"

"It's just that… everything is weird and I'm worried about you. I have a bad feeling. So even if you won't come… I know all the lyrics, I can sing alone. I choose it, and I will always choose you before anything else," Jirou said and smiled. She smiled... The smile couldn't speak, but Momo heard the most beautiful melody; it didn't have a scent, but Momo felt spring in the air. The spring melted her walls. That was when Momo made her decision – it was an impulse, barely a push, but somehow it lifted her up. She stood in front of Jirou.

"Eh? What's going on?"

"People like you are harder to meet than the Snow Queen."

Jirou believed in her, she believed more than Momo could ever believe in herself. That faith made Momo feel something... Can it be wasted? Wasted on a coward? As the sun has never told flowers that they own it, just illuminated their petals for love, so Momo was growing thanks to Jirou's light.

She had to try. She would try. If the only way to meet the Snow Queen was the festival, Momo was going to take part in it.

She also felt that behind the glass she would learn something about mysterious Todoroki: his visit, the Christmas roses called hellebores, the person he couldn't meet.

The tale of the Snow Queen began with a broken mirror.

Momo's tale began with a mirror, too. Back then and now.

She did something that surprised her no less than Jirou. Not giving her friend a chance to move or retreat, she pulled her hand and hugged her tightly. The book fell to the ground, hiding the image of the Snow Queen.

"Yaomomo! That's enough! "Jirou screamed, her ears red.

Momo laughed and touched her forehead. "Never say you are less intelligent than me, Jirou. You noticed more than anyone else. But I decided. Thank you. At six, in the square, where they keep the sleighs?"

And before Jirou could say something, Momo run toward the house.

* * *

Today we had some doubts and emotions with a glimpse of backstory, in the next chapter you will learn more about the world and then... we sink into the romance.

I'm not sure how many versions this chapter had. I finished it last week but I wasn't happy with the result so I rewrote it several times...  
Time for an unpopular opinion: I don't really like Jirou, I think that despite many chapters, her personality stayed very unremarkable. Since she is important to Momo, I felt like giving their friendship a special meaning, but at the same time I struggled a lot writing them together. I hope the product of my efforts is satisfying and I was able to give Jirou's character a justice!

If you like it - or didn't like it, obviously - don't forget to leave a comment and share your thoughts. Thank you in advance!


	4. The tale of mothers

I'm truly sorry about this late update. In the meantime, I went on vacation, started a new job and handled few other things. What's more, I had this chapter ready two weeks ago but decide to re-write it and change the whole ending. I hope it's a little bit better now, hahaha.  
I explained some things about this chapter in the ending notes, I hope you'll read them! Enjoy! :)

* * *

 **The tale of mothers**

* * *

 _"Kay and Gerda looked at the picture-book full of beasts and of birds; and it was then-the clock in the church-tower was just striking five-that Kay said, "Oh! I feel such a sharp pain in my heart; and now something has got into my eye!"_

Momo walked down the long corridor, leading to the library where her mother usually spent her days. She wanted to rush, run and get over with the conversation, but she forced herself to be calm. One, two, three – her steps mechanical like a jack-in-the-box, her posture stiff. The flounces forming a ring at the bottom of her dress – a light but prim outfit, perfect for holiday afternoons – inhibited hurry. Looking at her now, no one would believe how often she was shaking under the layers of the unmoved face. No one tried to see it.

The light seeping through the large windows turned into bright pools on the rug and splashed her dress with stains of the slowly setting sun. Momo looked aside. The passing windows showed her silhouette: the white arms above the white dress, her dark long hair – a see-through princess full of glass frost. There was a superstition told in her hometown, mother had frightened her with it before... People who had small children veiled all mirrors, so that the Snow Queen wouldn't charm their kids. Momo had a thought that maybe windows should be covered too. In the end, mirrors were everywhere.

The library came out from the interweaving of light and shadow. Momo knocked on the door, her knock pealing in the corridor. In response, she heard a 'come in', very delicate, blending with silence. Her mother was all delicacy and calmness; you could easily forget about her in the crowded room, yet she was always noticed. Momo admired it. She had to try really hard to make people listen to her, and those more confident ignored her anyway; her mother smiled and tilted her head, and everyone had their ears open. She never sought attention and always taught her daughter that a clear mind and a wise word were worth ten beautiful faces. Momo felt that her mother was ashamed of the beauty she has passed on; during conversations her chin was always dipping down, and her hands were squeezed in their own grip. Then she was disappearing, and only her voice remained. Maybe that was the purest kind of conversation.

Momo closed the door silently. She noticed her mother after a second; she almost drowned in the large armchair crushed between the full bookshelves. A stranger would probably miss her – Momo spent with her so much time that she was able to recognize her breathing.

"Did something happen, my dear?"

Momo smiled involuntarily. "No. I just wanted to see you."

She came closer and hesitated. There was a part of her that wanted to sit on the floor and put her head on mother's lap. It was outshouted by another part, the one that grabbed a chair standing against the wall and moved it closer to the table. Her mother watched it from her book.

"You look worried. I can see it in your eyes."

"I'm not worried, mother, just thoughtful. There are so many things you can think about."

"Are you sure?" Her lips curled into a thin like a stalk smile. "You blush as easily as me, my bud. You can't lie."

"Maybe you're right. But I can always try to calm you down."

Without adding anything, she sat down by the small table where blossomed the lush garden of aromatic floral teas, brought by Momo's father from his travels. He loved tea and books. Maybe as much as he loved his family. While other fathers were giving their spoiled daughter beads, dresses and hairclips, her daddy focused on practical gifts – teas, books, maps. All that could help his wife and daughter taste the world they couldn't experience. Then he would sit all evening with Momo on his lap, telling stories about strange wonders he had encountered on his way, about the festival and the customs associated with the Snow Queen. She loved it; she loved knowing more. Mother only looked at them from the threshold, holding like a shield yet another gilt-edged book, another wedding gift. It probably bound them together, Momo thought. Her father could love her quiet, locked in the library mother because she valued knowledge as much as he did. And he loved his travels because they were everything but silence and library. That was easier for him, and Momo understood it.

"You won't mind if I have a cup of tea with you, right?"

"Of course not. You don't even have to ask," mother replied; she was a careful sparrow sitting on the windowsill and listening to every move. For the millionth time that day, Momo felt embarrassed. What was her mother looking for?

Momo reached for the teapot and cups. The sweet aroma of spring, of jasmine and rose petals filled the winter air.

"Tell me, my child..." Mother glanced at her stealthily. "What happened... to your pretty face?"

"Excuse me?" Momo asked, confused.

"Your lipstick," mother said, pointing at Momo with her chin and frowning, as if the smell of withering leaves crept into the spring scent. "This shade of red looks so... Especially with your snow-white dress. You could choose something more modest."

A trickle of tea danced in the air, missed its end and spattered on the table. Momo admired her hands for spilling only few petty drops. "I... no... I'm sorry. I didn't know you would hate it."

"I don't hate it, it's just... Momo," mother started and touched her fingertips together. "You are smart enough to know what is proper and what is not. Are such colors in fashion? I don't know... I'm just your old mother. But you can probably admit that it looks a little inappropriate. Am I right?"

Mother scrutinized her, from the black ponytail to the slippers, she didn't miss even one crease of dress. She turned into a mirror; she didn't say anything harsh, didn't slate her or send her away, yet Momo felt as if she was looking in mother's dark pupils and noticed her own beauty and imperfection. She took a deep breath, raised her head, her eyes sliding behind a childish veil of shame. But she refused to accept remarks while staring on the too clean, too beautiful carpet.

"If you think so, mother, I'll get rid of lipstick, but first I'd like to know what is wrong with it," Momo announced, making sure her voice didn't sound defiant.

"There's no need to defend yourself, dear, you didn't do anything wrong."

Momo took the cup. The amber surface of the tea waved under her nervous breath. "I don't defend myself. I only asked for a more specific explanation. Understanding the nature of my error will help me avoid it in the future."

"Red is one of the most provocative colors of nature, it serves only to attract attention," mother said as if she was reading an encyclopedia page. Momo was almost positive she was reading an encyclopedia aloud when no one was looking. "Animals have red plumage when they enter the mating season and become intoxicated by pheromones or to scare away potential predators. Red plants are poisonous. Nature has testified that red catches attention, attracts the eye, screams about its existence... Why do you need it, Momo? For what?"

Momo was silent. There was nothing left to add. Thousands of books, long words with meanings hard to explain – what was their point? Now they all seemed empty and worthless.

Was her mother right? Did Momo act vain? Though she didn't want to admit it, she couldn't ignore the hypothesis.

The armchair scraped the floor, being drawn back. Momo opened her eyes. When did she close them? Mother was standing in front of her now. Her black hair dripped down on Momo's face with a tender and comforting smile as she leaned over and laid both hands on her daughter's cheeks.

"Momo, you don't need this. You are our child. Our genius. Our pride. You don't have to draw attention with cheap tricks to show how great you are; only these who don't have anything else do it... "

 _I'm not. I can't._

"White fits you better," she continued. "Modest colors don't distract from the spoken words and provide an excellent background for erudition."

"Why do I have to choose?" Momo asked. "I can't be both beautiful and smart? Is that so hard?"

"You can, and you are," mother said. "But what is the beauty that you want? This red, this... passion? You are beautiful, my daughter..." She stroked her cheek, her touch delicate and slow, as if those hands wanted to leave a mark on her daughter's face. "Too beautiful for this world. Too naive. If you allow it, people will hang you on the wall and admire like a painting... I don't want it for you. I want them to listen to you."

Momo clenched her fingers on the flounce of her white dress. Suddenly, it seemed darker, more cream-colored; maybe like cream with coffee shade? She saw a drop of blood on the blinding white windowsill, the white and red hair, the scar that looked like a burn mark engraved on the statuesque face... Then she remembered that she was no longer sitting in the living room with goose bumps on her arms, or standing in the garden, she wasn't admiring the flowers; it was someone completely different. She felt abashed.

"Nobody can be white and red at a time, right?"

Mother nodded. It was obvious that she didn't understand the meaning of her words.

"Of course. Modesty or frivolity. You can't live in two worlds at the same time. That's one of the choices you make at your age, Momo."

She wonder if Todoroki made similar choices somewhere in the wide world beyond the coffin? Momo assumed that's how it was – what else could you do in your youth if not choose blindly paths deciding your adult life?

Mother sat back in the chair. Momo reached for the cup, keeping her hands busy and dragging the silence. There was a red lipstick mark on the edge of the white porcelain; it was almost laughing at her. "Did you make a similar choice at my age, mom?"

She nodded slowly. "You could say that. I decided that I didn't want anyone to pay attention to my appearance. But remember, Momo, I had it easier. I have never been noticed as much as you are now."

Mother was blind to her own judging by appearances – as long as Momo was transparent-white as the December air, in her eyes she remained the clear and clean voice. "In that case... It's my turn to make choices? To decide who I want to be?"

The woman looked at the white— at the dirty red cup and raised her eyebrows.

"Of course. And do you want to be someone I don't know about?"

If circumstances were different, Momo would wait longer, assess the direction the conversation was taking and interject her question later, when mother would find it difficult to retreat. But the hands of the clock had different plans, and inexorably counted down the time until the festival. Tick, tick, now... Her time to act. The worst possible epilogue would be the ban on the Winter Solstice celebrations. The word 'guillotine' appeared in Momo's head; the threat of one word hung over her, cutting off the escape route. The ice was cracking under her feet.

"I want... I would like to go to the Winter Solstice. _Please_."

She leaned back in her chair, straightened up and looked at the window. Ubiquitous mirrors multiplied her face. Like any other reflection, the one caught on the window was also reversed; that chin wasn't dipping down, that head was raised. The library was on the other side of the house, away from the garden, so she could admire only red roses sleeping in a flowerpot on the windowsill. They weren't in bloom, but they added red blushes to her glass cheeks.

Mother didn't say a word. She didn't agree, or refused – only stirred her tea slowly, fighting with some non-existing sugar lumps. Now she really looked like her garden statues, her beautiful paintings.

Momo's fingers closed around her wrist. She tried to hide, but nerves were consuming her. Of course, before she even finished speaking, Momo was already analyzing other possibilities... Did I make the right choice? Would it be better to wait? Talk to mother longer? Did I make the right choice? Was I too direct? Did I sound rude? Could I start with more arguments and not with a request? Did…

 _Did she make the right choice?_

"No." Mother finally shook her head.

"This is..." Momo stammered. "Extremely... a fast response. You didn't even think about it. Since I'm fifteen..."

"No! Am I speaking indistinctly?"

Momo reacted with reluctance. "... Most people participate in the festival after their fifteenth birthday. It's almost like a ceremony of majority. You can't forbid me that."

"I can't forbid you to take part in the feast honoring the demon, murderess and kidnapper? You're wrong, my bud. You don't have to be like others."

"And if I want to be?"

"I will not let my only child go to the place where she can die!"

Momo wanted to be honest with her mother. She even considered telling her the truth. But not now. Mother was falling apart; she was blurring. Her arms swayed as if a gust broke in through the crack in the window, and a trick of tears glinted on her cheeks.

"Mother..." Momo whispered, "Are you crying?"

"The Snow Queen is a powerful being, a very old being; she belongs to the origins of the world, not to us. She was here long before humans... One shouldn't play with such beings, make a toast with mulled wine for her. She won't understand it or appreciate it anyway."

"It's not about toasts, about buttering up. People are celebrating her arrival because they pray for a mild winter and a new blessing," Momo reminded. Her tone was more confident. Stronger. She was convincing her mother of things she knew. "You know that back in the day, researchers have noted the length of winter and temperature in different regions. The comparison of results demonstrated that winter is harsher in our land. People haven't been able to find the palace of the Snow Queen, but the most logical explanation is that we are close to the heart of winter and that affects the local climate. Some also think that the Snow Queen holds grudges against us and sends us severe frosts. But regardless of whether we are her neighbors or we deserve the eternal winter, the Snow Queen is an ancient being we depend on, and she deserves respect. We show it in the form of the festival."

This textbook definition, her objective statement of facts seemed to hit mother like a winter gale, like water sleeping under the freezing surface. She was sitting in the large armchair and drowning in it like in the river with the red bridge, and her chin was dropping lower and lower. Momo was a stone; she pulled her down.

"Momo... I can't believe it. Why would you, of all people, want to see her? You should know better than others how dangerous this is."

"I just want to..." See Jirou. Learn something. Momo almost said it aloud but she bit her tongue in time. She didn't want to put the blame on Jirou

Now her mother was speaking gently, "She is a ghost, Momo. Winter. Loneliness. Death. She doesn't belong to this world. Or maybe the world belongs to her: nature, the sky, days and nights. Maybe it's all hers, not ours. But we shouldn't give her our songs and our children."

Momo gathered all her courage. "There is no proof that the Snow Queen abducts children. It's just a legend."

"Kills children," mother corrected her. "Of course we have a proof, Momo. It's called the probability calculus; what is the chance that on the Winter Solstice, just when the Snow Queen passes by, our children die?"

"They don't die! There are no bodies. Besides… If someone did something bad to them, the Snow Queen would be a very convenient explanation."

Mother smiled bitterly. "You believe even in a demon. That's why I'm afraid for you. Remember that boy from our town? He was your age, Momo. Your age... And people assure that before he disappeared, they saw him tying his little sled to the large sledge with diamonds."

"When we're convinced of something, eyes can deceive us," Momo said. "People see what they want to see. Or what they are afraid of seeing."

Momo went silent. She should add something, but... She couldn't find words. The books always had the right words, the right sentences – how pathetic it was that Momo, raised in libraries, didn't have the right words?

Mother shook her head. "People say that the oldest kidnapped children were fourteen, and never more and never less, but I can also use your words, Momo: do you have a proof that the Snow Queen won't take you away? Age protecting from ice is just a theory. A hypothesis." As her daughter didn't answer, her gaze slipped into the past. "I still remember that feeling when we found you on the road behind the house on the Winter Solstice. You were only seven and your cheeks were always cherry, but then all colors left your face. Only blueness remained. And it was so cold – I've never felt such frost before. You were lying in the snow, we barely noticed you. Then we tried to warm you up by the fireplace, but no matter how many blankets we wrapped around you, you were still cold. For a while… I was really afraid that my only child would die in the darkness of winter. I can't watch this again."

"I got lost in the snowstorm. It was irresponsible of me and... sorry. I'm really sorry."

"I love you," her mother said. "More than anything in the whole world."

"I know."

Only later, much later, and too late, would Momo understand all the things she could say. But back then she got up, accidentally knocking off a teaspoon. It left stains on the too clean carpet, muddy like earth under melting snow. And she didn't care, the carpet finally gained a shred of life.

Her mother didn't say a word when Momo's steps crossed the room and stopped in front of the icebound window overlooking the main road instead of the garden. The sun was slowly going down; the window matted together with the color of the sky, and Momo's face turned into another face, a glass face. In the mirror, she saw her mother picking up the book and sighing heavily. Did she read about the Snow Queen? It seemed more possible with every little sigh.

"Did you really forget everything?" her mother asked.

"Yes," Momo lied.

Her parents had noticed her in the snow only because she had been wearing a red coat. The coat as red as blood and the spring roses.

Momo wondered if roses from the flowerpot would blossom this spring. She doubted it – in the shadow of the shelves, they had too little light, too little love. She didn't even tilt her head to look at the real flowers. Instead, she saw them in the mirror-window, grotesquely foggy, disappearing in the light of the setting sun. Ghosts. Potted ghosts of flowers growing in the garden. She looked up and saw her own reflection, and for a moment she was looking at someone else, at someone she had been at the age of seven in the snowstorm, at the future she didn't know yet. A potted plant.

The fairy tale had a song about roses too. She remembered it well... there plants sprouted in an alley, waiting for angelic fingers to take them. Once Momo and Jirou had decided to write their own song, something funny and childish, inspired by that fragment. They had spent the whole evening laughing and rolling on the pillows, writing about love. Love – it was what teenagers were writing about. It almost seemed like now, on the stairs, Jirou was singing...

 _The rose blooms in the garden, sweet and heavy as blood,_

 _The wind falls in love, he kisses her flower bud._

 _And sings for her in sliver, and whirls with her in the allay_

 _Until the gardener cuts and takes the rose away_

 _Until the gardener cuts, the wind flies away_

Momo stirred. She took a step closer to the window. She put her hand on the knob.

"What are you doing, Momo?" mother asked. She was worried. Of course. The window was closed, and Todoroki was not standing there – what did she expect?

Who knows? She just knew that _something_ was waiting for her. Outside of the coffin, Jirou would sing that song. Outside of the coffin, the Christmas roses were waiting to pick them up. And Momo concluded that she should keep her mouth shut.

 _Until the gardener cuts and takes the rose away_

"I... I don't feel good. I'll go now."

The reflection of her mother watched her from under her eyelashes, as if out of hiding – from the shadow of the library, her whole world.

"Goodnight, Momo."

Momo didn't meet her mother's real eyes until the very end.

She should.

It was late evening when Momo finally decided to take action. She lay on her bed, clock's ticking being her only accompaniment. She waited... Everything about the world outside seemed frozen in time, as if the streets were cover by icy crust, lulling people underneath it. Then the clock tower made the chime of the hour. The ice of silence broke. In Momo's room, all sounds were muffled, garbled, but she knew they were coming from the main square. The festival started.

Momo got up, walked to the trunk and opened the lid. The trunk almost fell over, offended by her sudden move. Not caring about the object's feelings, Momo went through the contents, creating small piles on both sides until she found what she was looking for. Her treasure, coming to light: a warm, fluffy muff and a pair of beautiful, red shoes.

She was sneaking out of the house. She was searching for her things, looking over her shoulder and checking the door, and she was sneaking out of the house. She broke the rules and acted like an insubordinate child who didn't get what they wanted…

But it wasn't really breaking the rules. Not in the full sense. Her mother forbade her to go to the festival, but from her words it appeared that she was afraid of the Snow Queen. For a while there had been nothing but fairy tales and bells in Momo's head, the bells of sleigh played on piano, and then—then it appeared. Her father. He was the one who told her about the festival, about the celebrations that began in the evening, about the Snow Queen who would wander through the city only after the twelfth clock strike. That's why Momo decided to escape before the midnight. Of course, she justified herself —a little. But how could she avoid seeing Jirou… And the past, and snow. A short moment; she would flee as soon as the Queen appears. All these thoughts filled Momo's head and nearly burst it as she put her red shoes on.

The house was empty. Since there weren't any too-well-protected children around, the service willingly took advantage of the opportunity to spend the day off with their families. Mother closed herself in the library; most likely she wouldn't leave until twelve o'clock. Nevertheless, Momo decided to be careful.

The library window had a view of the main street. Her mother would just have to look out to catch her in the act. Momo could count on good luck, but she wasn't sure; too many factors that may go wrong. Her feet carried her over to the garden.

She put her hands in the muff and took a cold breath as the evening frost wrapped around her; it waded through the coat and pierced her lungs. Momo almost forgot how cold December nights were. It felt like her heart was breaking. How much time has passed since she was out at dusk?

Momo crossed the garden, glancing only briefly at the Christmas roses, and stopped in front of the fountain. Her mother didn't like the fountain; nobody in the mansion liked it. It was old, it was dirty, and no one noticed the small hole in the fence behind it. Getting to it wasn't easy – you had to stand on the slippery framing of the fountain and carefully walk on it. Momo once again recalled her childhood races with Jirou. When she was younger, she had often dried her dresses. The good thing was that she gained the skill to walk both on the fountain and the ice.

Smiling under her breath, she took a step and almost fell. Momo stopped dead in her tracks—standing on the fountain, stupidly, she waited. She stumbled over the book she'd left here earlier. It was her beloved copy, well-cared despite the passage of time, full of notes on the margins, drawings and sketches. Momo didn't want it to sleep in the snow, but now there was no time to come back to the mansion. Momo jumped over it, making a note to remember about it later, and slipped through the hole in the fence. The main street was wide open. The sounds of music were coming somewhere from afar.

And this was the moment when everything turned inside out. When the story that Momo would take part in truly began. Of course, it had begun earlier, with the mirror, with the rose, with the boy crouching in the garden. The fairy tale was beautiful like laughter of children playing by the fountain, or watching roses. But beneath the layers of magic lurked darkness, remembered by the ancient fairy tales.

If Momo hadn't talked to her mother, if she hadn't been late for the festival, things would have been different.

* * *

1) I've made some cosmetic changes in the earlier chapters, one of them being adding quotes from The Snow Queen.  
2) I had mixed feelings about Momo breaking the rules but I thought about her taking a part in the Bakugou rescue mission. She did act against her teacher's will, at the same time claiming that she would just watch others. I think Momo is obedient and yet bending the rules can be a part of her character.  
3) A lady from a good household who is told to sit still and look pretty instead of learning is a very popular trope, so my idea was to reinterpret it and create a home where learning is valued more than a good look. This headcanon came to me when I watched Momo feeling comfortable in her hero costume, as it has a practical use, and being ashamed of bikini/cheerleader outfit because its only purpose was to make her look pretty. From the drama CD we also learn that Momo didn't participate in the summer celebrations because "I was told by my mother that rather than the sweets and snacks that the festival giving out, the dessert specialists make better stuff than those sweets" and "As a child, I was told by my mother that its not necessary to go". I know that I gave you a long explanation but I wanted to share the source of my headcanons and Momo's relationship with her mother.  
4) The beginning may be dragged but I needed some world building. You'll see in later chapters... everything is necessary... But Todoroki is going to appear in the next update, the romance part truly starts! :)


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